


Cause I'd Rather Feel Pain

by avatarkadaj



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Blood, Gen, Self Harm, philosophical self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-04-13 05:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4509552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avatarkadaj/pseuds/avatarkadaj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Round and round, the thoughts go in his head but he always ends up here instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cause I'd Rather Feel Pain

**Author's Note:**

> As given in the warnings, gratuitous self harm and excuses for it throughout. I don't condone self harm and I don't suggest anyone who would be triggered by it to read this. 
> 
> Title from "Pain" by Three Days Grace.

It was something he often did. It was a habit, an addiction, something necessary and vital to him in this existence as a Nobody. Sometimes it was days, sometimes it was hours, it was never exactly concrete but that was irrelevant in the grand scheme of it all. It always happened the same way, though.

Roxas would crawl to the top of his way, avoiding the moonlight of the foot end as if it would burn him as it revealed the act, burn him in the shame and put him in a spotlight he didn't need nor want. Besides, the shadows that enveloped him were comforting and constant; passive, silent and watchful, aware of his actions but never revealing him and goaded him onward in their protection. He revealed a stolen pocketknife; he couldn't remember who he stole it from exactly, not that it mattered. Probably Demyx, who got it from someone else, who got it from Larxene. Not that it mattered in the end. They wouldn't be using it anymore and they never asked him about it. 

He clutched it for a moment, staring at the smooth edge for a second as if he didn't recognize it. There was always a moment of hesitation, a second in which he contemplated the action. But it was never enough to really analyze it; he never thought of the action in the same way he never really  _looked_ at the blade, it was more like he was looking through it, staring at it numbly. He rolled off the coat sleeve and bent his wrist to expose a section beneath the hem of the glove. 

Roxas examined his wrist, his eyes blankly taking in the scars, crisscrossed and straight, as the knife traced them. He wondered how a Nobody even scarred somewhere in the back of his mind. He tossed aside the pondering with an inward shrug before taking the blade to his wrist. 

_Slash, slash._

Twin cuts across smooth skin, a moment before the pain could register. Funny thing, the brain was. The body could be hurt but there was still those moments when there was nothing before the sharp sting kicked in. Of course it was a recognizable sensation, even without memories, even without feelings. It didn't just hurt because Axel told him the body can be hurt; it was there simply because it  _was._

 _It doesn't hurt, it doesn't hurt._ As if repetition can change the reality. As if lying enough times will make it the truth. Roxas watched as the blood welled up around the cuts, before the scarlet drops ran together and flowed over the curve of his wrist or traced his veins down to hide under the glove. As they disappeared, he could feel the drops following the patterns of his palm. There was an odd, almost sick fascination with the sensation of bleeding. A dulled, sardonic smile attempted to tug at his mouth.  _Silly Roxas, you can't like anything._

_\--_

If Nobodies could feel tired, could feel sick and exhausted, then Roxas was tired, sick and exhausted. There was something buried in the "numbness" that a heartless life entailed; there was this sense of aching, this drive of desire for something just barely out of reach. He didn't know how the others dealt with it; and to be honest, he didn't really care. He was curious, perhaps, but what did it matter? However, he knew for certain it turned into... into this "hate"--could Nobodies feel hate? 

 _Whatever._ "Hate" was close enough to whatever it was inside him. The others seemed content with their decision to wait, to move through this under the pretense of their memories and the idealism that if they kept faking it, kept relying on those memories, that their hearts were "almost" there anyway. It was "okay" for them. Dammit, they'd never understand his thoughts. 

It didn't help that he was usually kept in the dark on important matters either. They didn't tell him about missions, didn't explain in great depth about what Kingdom Hearts was, what it meant to be a Nobody. They probably thought that even if they did, he wouldn't get it. He sighed inwardly; they were probably right, he wouldn't understand it. Not without understanding himself first. 

But he didnt need his memories or need their help to understand self-injury and that was all that really mattered right now anyway. He couldn't focus on the bizarre feeling of abandonment and exclusion when they left him all alone in the dark when there's a knife to his wrist. He couldn't deliberate on the idea of apathy and the desire to escape it with blood running down his arm. He couldn't function around the thought of wanting  _out_ and this was his way out and what anyone else thought  _didn't matter._

 _Slash, slash._ Another twin cuts, right below the first. Always a pair; he wouldn't want one cut to be all alone, would he?  _Pathetic. Morbid._ Whatever, it didn't matter. Happiness, if it was even real, wasn't an option. Why bother pretending when he knew the truth? (They could hide plenty of things but at least none of them tried to fake happiness. Except...) 

It was a moment before the pain kicked in again, seeming to double with the added slashes. He heard a whimper before realizing it was his own. He didn't know he could make a noise like that. The pain was increasing steadily, from a sharp sting to a full ache, throbbing as the blood became a little darker, running a little thicker. He pondered somewhere in the back of his mind how it could flow like that when there wasn't a heart to beat it, but the logic was lost on him. (How were they even alive, that's the final question he was almost always led to, always without an answer.)

                                                                                                                                                       --

Admittedly, there was this sense of being  _alive_ when he cut. It awakened something in him-- whatever that something was, was unknown. It was odd and more than likely counter-productive, but he didn't care. It was strange, like an adrenaline junkie getting high on diving off a cliff. It was dangerous and it hurt but it felt  _good_ and there wasn't really adequate wording to place on this sensation. What he did have, was the knowledge he wasn't going to stop. 

If he was truly honest with himself, it was like an addiction. Stealing away precious moments alone with his blade, feeling it prick in public when he fought too hard, running his fingers gently over a recently healed cut or scar and knowing he  _needed_ to do it again... it wasn't like he  _wanted_ to stop, but even if he  _did_ , he knew deep down he couldn't. It was consuming and he  _enjoyed_ it. It was wrong, but he didn't know why and he didn't know how to stop. 

                                                                                                                                                       --

Roxas wouldn't call himself "angry", per se. That seemed a bit much, a bit over the top, a bit more than possible. He recalled what "angry" looked like; Larxene tearing into someone else, Axel's eyes when he was overcome with heartless, when Axel defended him, when Demyx fucked something up and Saix almost looked like he had canine fangs. That was angry. Roxas was more like  _frustrated_ and maybe  _fed-up._ But regardless, that fuel of irritation certainly was better than nothing, better than  _feeling_ nothing. (Once again, round and round in his head of what feelings were "real" and which were improvised....)

Agony... Agony... What was that again? Like an intense pain, like a blade running through you. Roxas pondered that one. He wasn't in agony, unless he considered the cuts on his arm. That could be agony. But his chest was empty, there wasn't agony there. Just numbness, emptiness, nothing. But, he considered, if he could be in agony, that would be better than nothing too. His arm throbbed with pain dully in the background; it wasn't agony, not yet anyway. It was just pain, hurting mildly in comparison to other things he'd been through. But those incidents, the fights and the pain, those felt... good, in their own way. A reminder that in some form he existed, he was present and there and  _real_ _._

 _Misery._ Nobodies could never feel that. But emptiness seemed close enough. It had been described to him, that misery was this unending "sadness" that almost felt like pain. It almost hurt; actually, some people actually ached when they were miserable, or so he'd been told. It sounded unpleasant; being in such a poor emotional state that the body also started to suffer. 

A light chuckle escaped his lips, dry and humorless.  _Unpleasant._ But the description of misery - emotional sadness turned into physical pain... wasn't that what he was doing? Turning something internally unpleasant into physically painful? He blinked slowly, looking back at the cuts. The blood was starting to dry now.  _No._ It was different. It was definitely different, though he couldn't place a finger on how.

This sort of meaningless, hopeless plan was more of a release, a means to become something, an action to cause a reaction, rather than an expression. The distinction wasn't always clear, but it was there nevertheless. The Nobody considered whether the distinction mattered to begin with. He wasn't explaining this to anyone, because no one had the capacity to understand or care in any case. He wondered why he was trying to justify this to himself. It didn't feel wrong--he didn't and couldn't know guilt--so why did it matter, he wasn't sure. Perhaps he had a tendency to overthink his own actions, in order to eventually understand them; he didn't have that luxury with anything else.

He lifted the knife again. 

**Author's Note:**

> There was originally more, but I'm not sure if I really want to add more. I'm leaving it here for now. Originally a songfic, but decided to scrap that too.


End file.
